


The Beefy Bodyguard and the Magnificent Mage

by coveredinfeels



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull Holiday Exchange, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 10:36:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5663182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredinfeels/pseuds/coveredinfeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Halward Pavus hires the Chargers as bodyguards for his estranged son.<br/>Dorian Pavus is, predictably, not altogether pleased about this. To begin with, at least. He comes around.</p><p>Written for the Adoribull Holiday Exchange</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beefy Bodyguard and the Magnificent Mage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wolfling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfling/gifts).



> Thanks to Lavinia for the beta!

Bull should have known something was up, the cagey way the Magister responded when he asked about his son's current security arrangements. He should have known something was up the moment a Tevinter Magister tried to hire an Orlesian-based merc group headed by a Qunari to guard his son, apparently currently in the Free Marches.

“He's summering with a friend by the name of Trevelyan, some sort of Ostwick... nobility.” the Magister had said, expression through the grainy video call making it clear that his opinion on Free Marcher nobility was nearly as low as his opinion on qunari mercenaries.

Also, who the fuck says 'summering'? Poncy asshole. Still, he was very rich, too desperate to negotiate properly, and at least sounded genuine when he was worrying about his son getting knocked off. “You know anything about the source of the threats?”

“It may well be someone from Tevinter. I would not say I am bereft of enemies, and if they can't get to me, well-- it's politics, you understand.” He says it like he expects Bull to not understand at all, and Bull does his best meathead impression. Understand Tevinter politics, him? Nah. Bull barely knows Tevinter has a Divine, let alone that the guy who most recently bribed and backstabbed his way to said holy position is at odds with the guy who most recently bribed and backstabbed his way to Archon, and everyone else is either taking a side or taking cover.

Tevinter politics as usual, which is to say, it's a mess. The Ben-Hassrath like a mess. Good to hide in. He might not be one of their number any more, but it's not like they've changed their tactics recently.

Shit, he hopes that's not what's going on. He doesn't fancy a clash with any of his former colleagues. He'll do it if he has to, but-- A mess. Definitely a mess. 

“I can't say I'll take the job until I've talked to your son, but I can promise I'll go there, meet with him face to face, and do my best to convince him to accept additional assistance with his security. Fee for that's upfront, mind.” For the sort of money the Magister's waving about, his boys would happily go to Weisshaupt, never mind a nice jaunt up to the Free Marches. Even if Dorian Pavus tells them to fuck off, they'll be paid up and ready to take on some local work.

Stitches is going to be happy, at least. And spend all his spare cash on cheese.

* * *

Half of his boys still have a job to finish up in Orlais, not a difficult one, though. The other half he assembles a convoy for, straight up the main highway, driving in shifts. Driver picks the music, which means they all get to take turns taking the piss at the taste-- or lack thereof-- of their choices.

Grim takes the last leg up to Ostwick, and he likes to listen to classical piano, which at least puts Bull in a calm mood to face his (hopefully) new employer. They've got all the paperwork in order, at least-- merc registration from Orlais, the stuff from the Magister that proves they're paid up, the letter of recommendation from Ma'am that opens doors better than a skeleton key.

You don't walk up to a guy who's already got death threats and just go 'we're here to help'. That's not going to go well. For similar reasons, he loads Krem up with the paperwork and lets him head up to the Trevelyan estate first. Krem's a smart guy, and a lot less threatening to look at than Bull, at least when he's not armed with anything nearly as big as himself.

Sure enough, he phones in after an hour-- they've got an interview with Maxwell Trevelyan, Dorian Pavus' friend and the owner of the estate where he's staying. That seems fair. If they're going to do this, and Dorian Pavus intends to stay in Ostwick, he'll need the cooperation of Maxwell Trevelyan and, if possible, the goodwill of Trevelyan's security staff, whatever that's like.

He takes Krem back with him, of course, and Stitches because he's got a level head and can mind his manners. The rest, he leaves set up at their temporary accommodation with instructions not to get too plastered; they might have to move by nightfall.

At least the location itself is promising. Compact, easy to secure. Good walls. Some visible muscle-- men and mabari-- and some less obvious as well, if he's not mistaking the way that gardener carries himself.

Couple of blind spots in the camera coverage, but nobody's perfect. The head of Trevelyan's security is a perfectly reasonable sort and he leaves Krem and Stitches with him to discuss how they're going to manage this, presuming Bull can convince Trevelyan that keeping him on is a good idea.

Maxwell Trevelyan himself is a well-built red-head, and would be Bull's type if something about his swagger wasn't immediately off-putting. Youngest son of a noble family, so said Dalish's hastily collected profile, with little responsibility on his shoulders and even lower expectations. It hadn't said 'brat', but it clearly ought to have.

He does, at least, shake Bull's hand, and look him in the eye. “Plan's changed since I talked to your man.” he says, “In that Dorian found out you were coming here and why, and wants to tell you to fuck off in person, or something.”

Bull is suddenly very glad he got the first chunk of Magister Pavus' money up front. “Fine by me. Will you be sitting in?”

“Wouldn't miss it for the world.” Trevelyan says, with a grin. “If he threatens to set you on fire, don't worry. His bark's worse than his bite.”

The layout of Trevelyan's place is maze-like-- his boys will have to learn that quick, can't presume any attacker hasn't done their homework-- and his would-be assignment is sitting in a, well, he guesses it's a sort of library, or a study.

The afternoon light's very flattering to him, granted, but Bull winces to see someone who's apparently been getting death-threats sitting that close to an exterior window. Dorian Pavus is rather pretty, and rakes his eyes over Bull's form in a deliberate manner and snorts. “My father hired _you_? He must have been in one of his dramatic moods.”

Apparently introductions are not in order. “Or worried about his son.” Bull retorts, wondering how deep the 'estrangement' the Magister had tried to gloss over actually goes.

“Oh, please. Fifty-fifty chance he faked the threats to give himself an excuse to poke his nose into my business. Maxwell said I should at least meet with you, now I have. I don't _need_ protection, do fuck off, terribly sorry you've had a wasted trip.”

Well, that's interesting. The hostility is at least mostly directed at Magister Pavus, and he can work with that. “I'm just doing my job.”

“Do you think you could drop the act?” Dorian Pavus says, with a scowl that doesn't make him any less pretty, damn, and taps one long slender finger against the pile of papers on the desk in front of him. “Madame de Fer does not suffer fools lightly, which means you are not one.”

“In that case,” Bull drawls, “It wasn't a wasted trip. Not with how much I charged your father just to show up. Double our usual daily rate for the short notice, plus danger money, plus the AF.”

“AF?”

“Asshole fee.” Bull says, with a wink, and it actually startles a smile out of Dorian, and a obnoxious guffaw out of Trevelyan. “Look, I've already got a contract that says if you let me and my boys hang around, your dad's going to pay for the lot. I can look into the threats, figure out where they're coming from. If it's a prank, just seeing some obvious security about might scare them off.”

If it's really his father, that's pretty fucked up. Bull doesn't really get what the deal with parents is, entirely, kind of a shit version of Tamassrans where they don't even check if you're qualified to raise kids, but he's pretty sure faking death threats is fucked up, either way.

“I suppose I've wasted my father's money on more objectionable things than a Qunari bodyguard.” Dorian says, with a half-smile. “Provisionally, then, and on one condition: don't try to wink again. You only have one eye, it doesn't work at _all_.”

* * *

He regroups with Krem and Stitches on the way out. “Well?” Krem demands.

“He's an ass, but a pretty ass.” Bull answers.

Krem sighs “I meant, did you get us a job or did I spend a half an hour sweet-talking Trevelyan into meeting with you for nothing. Also, did you forget the rule about fraternisation?”

“We have the job, and what, I can't notice someone's hot?”

“You only made up that rule because everyone was sick of hearing Rocky's stories about the twins, anyway.” Stitches says, dryly. “Hey Krem, a week of dishes duty says he hits that within the week.”

“I want to believe in you, Chief.” Krem says, as he leans over to shake Stitches' hand. “Don't let me down, now.”

* * *

It actually takes about three days.

He doesn't intend it. Dorian's pretty but still hostile to the concept of a bodyguard in general and one his father hired for him in particular, although not in such a way as to actively interfere with their work. The threats arrive via phone or letter, and other than one case of someone attempting to scale the walls before getting scared off by the mabari, nobody's tried to get physically close. They're not even sure that was related, as opposed to a fairly stupid burglary attempt.

But when he asks Dorian how far back this goes, he answers, flippantly, _a few months, why?_. Your average prankster sends a couple of letters and maybe calls from a phone-booth and then gives up. This guy, if anything, is persistent.

Well, if he escalates, Bull will be here. In the meantime, he leaves Rocky and Dalish to the tracing and tracking side of things and spends his time getting to know Dorian's schedule-- and Dorian-- better.

It only takes until about half-way through the first day before one of Dorian's snarky little asides leaves an opening for a dirty joke so large Bull simply can't ignore it. Dorian responds with a sort of laughing mock-offence that is improbably charming, and makes Bull want to try and provoke it again.

Flirtatious banter aside, he honestly doesn't intend anything more. That Dorian starts to soften towards him, becomes more cooperative, makes it easier to protect him. That he expresses this change in attitude by insults towards Bull's pants mixed with innuendo makes it easier to want to.

He'd do it for the sake of doing a decent job of the thing he was paid for, but it's nice when the client is someone you can get along with.

And get along, they certainly do. Until the night of the third full day of the job, as he's escorting Dorian back to his room while a couple of the others help Trevelyan's staff do a perimeter check. The past two nights, he's popped in to check the windows are secure while Dorian pours himself a nightcap and complains about how much space he takes up in his room.

Tonight, no nightcap, and when Bull turns towards the door, Dorian is standing between him and it. “Shouldn't you stay and protect me while I sleep, or something?”

“We do round-the-clock patrols.” Bull says, although he knows that's not what Dorian's hinting at.

Dorian smiles. “I was thinking of more _personal_ , hands-on protection.”

“I don't fuck while I'm on the job.” Bull says, bluntly. Dorian's face falls. Dammit. “...but I'm only on the clock until midnight.”

Dorian looks over at his bedside table, where the luminous numbers spell (literally, _spell_ , he has a magic fucking clock) 23:55. “In that case, I think I heard a noise. You better spend the next five minutes checking that out.” He raises his hands to his too-expensive silk shirt, starts slowly undoing the buttons. “I'll be getting ready for bed.”

It is the longest five minutes in Bull's recent memory.

Someday, Krem will probably forgive him.

* * *

Afterwards, Dorian sprawls over Bull's chest and doesn't ask him to leave, so Bull doesn't offer. “At least _this_ I know you're not doing on my father's request.”

“Not really my line of work.” Bull says. “More of a hobby. You two really don't get along, huh.”

“Putting it mildly.” Dorian replies. “He likes to paint himself as a very upstanding citizen of Tevinter, fighting the good fight against superstition and misuse of magic, but in the end, he's a hypocrite like the rest. When it came down to it, he was just as willing to spill blood to try and accomplish the magic of myth and legend-- you know, calling storms, rending the earth itself asunder, making your son less of a disappointment.”

He says it casually, flippantly, but it's like peering into a crack in a wall and seeing only the vast wastes of Seheron beyond. Bull hasn't words to reply, a dozen possibilities considered and rejected in the same moment.

“I don't usually tell people that story.” Dorian says, after a moment of silence. “Not much point. I've no proof, and the word of a Magister against the word of his deviant son?”

There's only one answer there. “I believe you.” he says, and means, _thank you for trusting me_.

“You're very warm.” Dorian muses, cutting the line of conversation off altogether.

He kicks, as it turns out, and steals the blankets. He also looks entirely surprised when he wakes to find Bull still there.

He's not on morning shift, so he stays until one of Trevelyan's staff comes in; she doesn't seem at all phased by his presence. In fact, as well as bringing Dorian his morning coffee, she hands him a note.

In Krem's handwriting, it says _you're an asshole, chief._

Well, that answers the question of whether the Chargers had figured out where he'd spent the night, at least.

* * *

Whether it's because of their presence or not, Bull doesn't know, but all goes quiet for a couple of weeks. Well, quiet on the side of the death threats. Loud on the side of both the time he spends with Dorian off-duty, and the Chargers' commentary on the topic.

Getting close to someone you're protecting is one thing. Letting it become a habit is not, generally, a habit of Bull's.

Dorian is becoming-- well, a _habit_.

When there's nobody to watch he wears fuzzy bed-socks, and clings to the Bull in his sleep like some sort of heat-seeking octopus. Bull learns, within those two weeks, that reading can be a spectator sport, when Dorian curls up on Sunday morning and conducts a fiery and rather one-sided argument with an apparently not-very-good book on Nevarran rituals of the dead.

Not the sort of material Bull would normally have anything to do with other than avoiding it like the blight. He thinks a chapter of the book might actually be about the blight, Dorian serious at that point, frowning down at the text with magelight flickering off his cheekbones.

Other times it is the papers – real ones he has sent from Tevinter, apparently the better to spread them out over the bed and argue with the editorials, then ball them up and try to throw them into the bin. His aim is not very good. “This nonsense again.” he says, poking an accusing finger at the newsprint. “You wouldn't believe how many people take these old stories seriously. Or how many hear about a time in which mages were powerful and feared and Tevinter ruled an empire and was hated for it-- and think that sounds like a brilliant idea, let's have another go at it, shall we?”

“They say similar things about the Qun.” Bull tells him. “Only, less magic involved.”

“And these days we're reduced to fighting over who gets to plant their flag in the ashes of what's left of Seheron.” Dorian says, and gets about a quarter of the way into a rant about Tevinter military politics before he pauses.

Bull must have slipped up, because it appears to be something on his face that's caused the hesitation. “I was there, for a few years.” he explains. “Seems like a lifetime ago, now.”

Whatever part of him was Hissrad bled out on the sands alongside the rest of his team, after all.

Dorian says nothing in return, just hurriedly changes the subject.

* * *

A change; Dorian looks down at the number on his phone and looks surprised, then warily cheerful. “Alexius? Yes, of course I do.”

The voice on the other end of the line is male, but there's little else to be discovered. As they're home at the estate, Bull does actually move to the other side of the room when Dorian waves him off.

“My old mentor.” he says, when the conversation is finished, looking thoughtful. “I haven't heard from him from months, he practically went into seclusion after his son's death. Felix was-- well, you know they say only the good die young. Judged by Tevinter standards, that probably means I will live to see a hundred.”

The tone of his voice is edged with sadness, despite the poor attempt at humour. Bull rests a hand on his shoulder and Dorian leans into it a little. Still, he has to know. The timing. “He calling for any particular reason?”

Dorian laughs. “You're so _suspicious_. I suppose that's your job, but Alexius couldn't possibly have a thing to do with all _that_. He wanted to meet, actually. He's throwing all his money into some charity-- medical research, Fight Against The Blight or something of that sort. Been hob-nobbing with _Grey Wardens_ , of all things.”

A lot of people insist to Bull that their best friend, favourite cousin, dear sister or beloved brother couldn't possibly be involved in whatever caused them to hire Bull in the first place. That's quite often when the backstabbing starts happening. In one case, very nearly with actual stabbing, had Rocky not been a lot quicker than he looks.

But he also knows that pressing Dorian on the possibility is not likely to do anything but make him less enthused about the prospect of letting Bull and a decent-sized security team be there for dinner at what appears to be a perfectly normal Rivaini place Alexius apparently is insistent Dorian tries.

They at least get the chance to check it out beforehand. It certainly _looks_ all above board; twelve years established, down a side-street in a part of the city that's popular with Rivaini immigrants, sandwiched between the better parts of town and an industrial zone. There are side-streets and alleyways but no more than usual. He's got enough people to cover all the exits.

Talking Dorian into having him actually in the restaurant, though, takes a little more doing. “Alexius is the man I wish _was_ my father,” he says, frowning. “I mean it, Bull. I won't hear another word against him.”

“Then think of it as protecting him.” Bull suggests. “If someone's gunning for you, who's to say they wouldn't be willing to go through him to get there?”

That pulls him up short. Dorian's gaze flicks towards the door, “Then, Max--”

Need to cut that line of thought down where it stands. Dorian worries too much about everyone who's not himself. “Knows what's going on and has his own security team. He's fine.”

“I'm not sure I trust your definition of 'fine', as many scars as you have.” Dorian retorts, but when he lays his fingers on Bull's arm to trace one he's tellingly gentle.

“Hey, I'm a professional.” he says, rather than commenting on the touch. “I can take a hit. That's sort of the point of me.”

“The concept of Kevlar hasn't made it as far as Par Vollen, I take it.” Dorian replies archly, and then, softer. “I wouldn't want... the Chargers to think that I didn't have any concern for their safety.”

He can't help but grab him into a hug, then, on-duty or not. “Aww, you wee toasted marshmallow.”

Dorian leans into it, and sighs. “Don't call me 'wee', and I don't even want to know where the marshmallow bit comes from.”

“Because you're sweet. And hot.” Bull answers.

“You are the _worst_.” Dorian declares, but Bull can feel him shaking with poorly-hidden laughter.

* * *

It ought not to be a problem. Krem is running the operation outside, covering exits and entrances, monitoring everything. He was going to speak to the restaurant, until he learnt that Dorian has modified the booking to make it for three.

“I will _not_ have you looming over me silently while I eat.” he says, emphatically. “Had too much of that in Tevinter as it is.”

Well, he's not going to eat much when he's working, but it's not an entirely bad idea, either. Gereon Alexius is an older man, greyer and more worn than Bull expected him to be at more or less the same age as Magister Pavus, but perhaps that's grief at work. “Dorian?” he asks, peering confusedly at Bull.

“It's a long story.” Dorian says.

“He's getting death threats. I'm here to stop them if they try anything.” Bull says, because really, not that long. Dorian glares sideways at him.

Alexius curses in Tevene, a phrase Bull doesn't recognise but the general sentiment comes through. “Your father's fault, I suppose. The man does enjoy collecting enemies. Actually, that's one of the things I'd wanted to talk to you about.”

Dorian makes a sour face, reaching for the wine menu. “I thought this was going to be about your charity work, Alexius. I'm really not very interested in talking about my father.”

From the tone, that's a fucking understatement. Alexius lets Dorian pick the wine, and they talk instead about this charity he's involved in, the research he's hoping to do, or sponsor. A cure for the blight. “I finally realised that Felix wouldn't have wanted me to spend the rest of my life just wallowing.” he says, and Dorian wells up and nods furiously across the table, reaching out to lay his hand on top of Alexius', comfortingly.

“Of course,” he says. “Let me know what I can do to help.”

Just as Bull's wondering if this is going to end up like the ending of some soppy daytime movie, in which case he's going to be in trouble as he always sobs like a baby at soppy happy endings, his earpiece buzzes into life, Krem's voice low and urgent. “Chief. Incoming, north, north-east. Two hostiles down, but lost sight of one. They're professionals.”

The most likely point of entry would be via the kitchen, unless they circled around. At least the position of the table, neatly tucked into a corner per Bull's own request, means that it'll be difficult to flank him and impossible to get in unseen.

The attacker doesn't even bother with unseen. The kitchen door swings open, and Bull's already moving, accidentally overturning someone's meal but it's worth it for the chance to knock his weapon out of his hand before he can fire, have him down on the floor and in a suppression hold before the bastard can even _blink_.

Deep breath. Check the room. One attacker; no sign that anybody else is in on the job. No, Dalish checked out the staff ahead of time and you checked the customers when you came in. Nobody out of place. Nobody more nervous than they should be.

“Alexius? What the--”

Except the other man at the table, who, went he turns to look has Dorian's wrist in a firm grip, his other hand holding up something glowing, shit, _magic_ , he hates magic. The funny thing is, Alexius doesn't look triumphant, or victorious, or whatever. When the weird glow lights up the hollows of his cheeks he just looks-- tired.

In the next moment, before Bull can do anything about it, the two of them both vanish.

* * *

Krem's already called in the Templars, so Bull deposits his prisoner with some blond straight out of Templar Standard Mould #53, and goes back to drop a large chunk of Halward Pavus' cash on the table, for services rendered and the inconvenience, because on top of everything else, Alexius didn't even pay for the meal.

He's sure as hell not going to leave Dorian's safety in the hands of the fucking Templars, though. “Dalish,” he says, because he knows she's monitoring the comms, “Tell me you can track him.”

“Phone tracker's gone dead.” she says. “The way I set it up, either someone destroyed it, or they're in a shielded area, or the fucking _teleportation magic_ 's messing with it, I won't be held responsible for shems messing with things what shouldn't be messed with, Chief.”

“Okay.” he says, although he's really feeling like this is not okay at all. “See if you can track down any boltholes belonging to Gereon Alexius. If you find anything, let us know.”

There's only one person he can think of who might have some idea about this shit. He retreats to a quiet corner to call her. “Ma'am? Sorry to call at this time, but I need a favour. Need some information on teleportation magic.”

“Given the wretchedness of the company from which you are providing me with an excuse to absent myself,” she says, “you may consider this one even. Why are you getting yourself involved with dangerous, unstable magic, my dear? Do explain yourself.”

He explains himself. “So, if there's any way to know where they went, or at least limit the search--”

She makes a thoughtful noise. “Not where, but how far, certainly-- even by the most generous estimates, no more than a mile or two. And not to just anywhere. The item you saw him use would have been keyed to another location. He selected the meeting-place, correct? It would be somewhere relatively close by, with plenty of room and privacy, or at least neighbours who wouldn't mind large amounts of suspicious magical activity. I can't imagine there's too many of _those_ in Ostwick.”

Well, that's something to start on, at least. “That's helpful, Ma'am. I'll get right on it.”

“Also, Dorian is a sweet boy, despite his rather pathetic attempts to spit venom as if he thinks he's capable of wickedness.” she adds. “Do be careful with him.”

“Will do, Ma'am.”

* * *

“You realise,” Dalish says, slightly peevishly, “that the entire area you're asking me to search is pretty much nothing but warehouses and industrial sites, and I've already checked if Alexius is linked to any of them, and the answer is _no_. ”

He thinks back over every conversation he's had with Dorian. _Hobnobbing with Grey Wardens, of all people_. “How about Grey Warden-owned buildings.”

A pause. “None current. Just a sec, I'll have to dig into property transfers.”

“Dalish, are you hacking shit?” Krem adds, because the Chargers are all listening in on this. “Please do. Work some computer-magic before Chief keels over with worry.”

“As I have said many times, I am neither a mage nor a hacker.” Dalish says, the sound of typing audible in the background. “I use ancient elven search techniques which are too complex to explain to you.”

“Don't care how you do it, as long as we get there.” Bull says.

“Aha! Got 'em. Old grey warden lab, about a mile from your current. Sold up about eight months ago, to a shell company which traces back to-- guess where? Sending Rocky a layout, recommend the west entrance, upper floor.”

Rocky grins. “Yeah, Grey Wardens are obsessed with their fucking tunnels, never remember to put proper security on their windows. I can get us in, Chief, I promise.”

* * *

Grey Warden buildings are always square, squat, and depressing. This one has CONSTANT VIGILENCE embossed over the main door, itself sealed shut with a large no-trespassing sign but that's not where they're going in. They circle around, instead, to the west entrance Dalish recommended.

For a lab that's not currently active, there sure is a fuck of a lot of active security. Rocky cuts the cameras and alarms, and Skinner takes a small team up through the windows, coming back down one level to let them in the west door. “No sight of any fucking shems yet,” she says. “It's all empty offices up the top. Reckon they're all down in the basements.”

There's something about this place which rings warning bells in Bull's head, memories of Seheron. Maybe it's the weird magic shit. He has to struggle with himself to let Skinner take point, presses away the memories of Vashaad. You made a mistake. Just don't make it twice.

But Skinner is at home here, in ill-lit, winding corridors, in the way Bull is not, and enemies drop silently in her wake. Some of them might even live to tell the tale. Rocky makes the security system dance to his tune, and they progress, and Bull will not fail any of them, not this time.

“More containment facilities downstairs,” Rocky says, “But there are also old living quarters on this floor, they could be holding him there.”

Bull considers the look on Alexius' face, the moment before he disappeared. “Living quarters.”

It seems to be the right call, because resistance thickens in this area. A lot of mages. They open one door and even the hardened Chargers take a moment, because it's thick with the smell of blood, bodies lying haphazardly around. “Blood magic.” Krem says, although it's hardly necessary to voice it.

“Keep moving.” Bull says, closing the door. “There's nothing to be done here.”

There's a battered sign that points to the Warden-Commander's quarters, and they push forward for that. If there's one thing about 'vints, it's that they always head for the poshest hiding places, like velvet curtains give them some sort of high ground.

Bull just hopes they're in time.

* * *

The door is heavily reinforced, obviously recently done. Rocky might be a little overenthusiastic with the explosives, all the same.

Bull is the first to leap through the hole where the door was, not considering how much structural damage they might have just done. There's only three people in the room. Alexius, in a crumpled pile on the ground. Living or not, he'll figure out in a moment.

Dorian, alive but not looking well, chest heaving as if he's having trouble breathing, and some asshole dressed like he's auditioning for the job of the Evil Vint Mage in the local panto.

“Come even one step further, you brute, and he's dead.” he sneers. “I gave him a little something to suppress his magic; in this state, I could have him dead with a thought.”

This is the moment in which Dorian clutches at the nearest chair, as if struggling to hold himself up, and then grabs it and swings it at the asshole's head.

It all gets a bit messy after that, but Bull remembers, with great clarity, one thought: _shit, just when I thought you couldn't get any hotter_.

* * *

“I don't think I can recommend magebane, as an experience.” Dorian says, as Stitches checks him over. “Definitely in the bottom five on the list of things I'd like to be drugged with.”

“You'll be fine. I'll give you something for the side effects, but you've got to let it work its way out of your system naturally.” Stitches says. “Keep hydrated, keep well rested, don't let this big idiot talk you into celebratory thank-the-maker-we're-alive sex until at least midday tomorrow.”

“Given that I feel I might throw up at any moment, I don't think that's going to be a problem.”

Krem's talking with the Seeker who turned up when they phoned in about the whole blood-magic-cult thing, either doing some fast talking to keep her from arresting them all for their part in things, or flirting, he can't really tell which from here. Perhaps both. Good on him, either way. The Seekers are dragging out mages in cuffs. Alexius is one of them, tottering like something undead, all the life out of him, as he's led away.

He looks over at Dorian, but Dorian refuses to meet his gaze. “He thought he was protecting me,” he says. “In his own, strange, twisted way. That was why the threats. They needed him to think I was in danger. Told him about what my father did, made him believe he might be trying to silence me.”

Kind of a shitty thing; not just that it's easy to believe. “So he, what, decided to lock you away in a research lab for your own good?”

“Something like that.” Dorian laughs. “He wanted me to go public, too. It'd ruin my father's career, of course. He takes a hard line against anything that even smells of blood magic. That's why he blocked Alexius' bill. The sort of medical procedures he wanted to make legal-- they were borderline. They probably wouldn't have even helped Felix. But try telling that to Alexius, of course.”

There's nothing much he can say to that. “Well, it's over now.”

“He's a good man.” Dorian says, softly. “A brilliant man. Even in the worst days of Tevinter, I could say I was working with Gereon Alexius, and it was something to be proud of. I should talk to the Seekers. They need to understand that. He's a good man, at heart.”

“They'll take your witness statement in the morning.” Bull replies, because he can't agree with the statement but he can state facts rather than argue opinions. “For now, you need to get some rest.”

“Mmm.” Dorian says, weariness and magebane obviously catching up with him. “Take me home, Bull.”

How can he help but obey?

* * *

The story makes the papers, of course, but Dorian comes out fairly well from it. He seems almost surprised that the locals might have some sympathy for a 'vint mage, when he's the victim of a blood magic cult rather than the leader of it.

The paparazzi photo someone sells to Varric fucking Tethras, of Bull trying to calm Dorian down before he goes in to testify against-- and in some ways, for-- Alexius, might have something to do with it. Tethras puts a headline against it-- THE MAN WHO FLED TEVINTER FOR LOVE-- and about a thousand words of mostly utter lies.

There is very little mentioned of Halward Pavus or exactly why Gereon Alexius had a grudge against him, and he thinks Dorian is thankful for that. Alexius does rant about it in the witness box, but his testimony is so disjointed that nobody takes it seriously.

At least he'll be spending his time in a hospital, rather than a prison.

“I suppose this is it, then.” Dorian says, when the trials are all done.

Halward Pavus cut them off about a month ago, and Trevalyan has been paying the Chargers since (at a reduced rate, because all things considered Trevelyan doesn't actually deserve the asshole fee), so, indeed, it probably is. “We do need to head back to Orlais. Got a regular customer in Val Royeaux who doesn't like being kept waiting.”

“So she tells me.” Dorian says, with a smile. “As a matter of fact, I've finally applied for the position in L'Institut de Nécromancie du Val Royeaux she keeps nagging me to consider. I felt the need for a change of location. Early days, of course, but perhaps I will see you around?”

“Sure.” Bull replies. “We'll go for a drink.”

* * *

“What do you mean,” Stitches says, glaring at the Orlesian customs officer, “cheese import limit?”

Other than that, it's an entirely uneventful trip home.

* * *

A text. _I don't suppose you know any large burly Qunari who might be convinced to assist me with moving into my new apartment? I can pay you in guimauves_.

 _Throw in a few kisses, and you've got yourself a deal_.

A pause, before the response comes. _You better be talking about the confectionery, because I will have you know, my affections are not won so lightly_.

_Understood. I'll line up my highest quality flexing for you.”_

_Ugh, you're terrible_. Another pause. _We need to move the bed in first_


End file.
